


Replacements That Never Quite Fit the Mold

by ShipperInParadise



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Is Not A Villain, F/M, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sam and Bucky end up best friends, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:29:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24564640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShipperInParadise/pseuds/ShipperInParadise
Summary: Steve Rogers died in 1945. The man that came out of the ice wasn't the same, no matter how much he wanted to be. And the world he woke up to? Well, that was hardly the same either. But that was just the sort of thing he'd have to learn to accept. He had to be strong. After all, Captain America was Captain America. Wasn't he?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers (one sided), Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers
Kudos: 7





	1. Forever More's a Memory

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a little time killer in the notes folder of my phone, but I decided that it might be worth posting. Tell me what you think! Should I continue it?

_May, 1945_

Cold. That was what he registered first. It was so damned cold. Steve knew, objectively, that if it had been anyone else but him in this position, that they would have died by now. If anyone who wasn't a super soldier had crashed a plane into the ice, they would have died upon impact. Well, no, in all honesty, they wouldn't have. Nobody else would end up dead except him, because Steve, unlike normal people, was too stubborn to just give Peggy his coordinates. At least he could admit that it was ridiculous, right? At least he could acknowledge, as he lay there freezing to death, that he probably should have handled this better. That was something, right? No. No, that wasn't anything, and as he dragged himself out of the pilot’s seat, he knew it.

The second, undeniable thing that he felt was pain. Pure, white hot pain, shooting up his legs and seemingly into his brain itself when he tried to stand. Tried really was the key word, because instead of standing he more or less crumpled to the ground. It didn't take a genius to know, as he looked down at his twisted legs, that they were both horribly broken.

A genius… Maybe it didn't take one to know he'd snapped his legs in the crash, but it sure as hell would have been nice to have one with him anyway. Steve only really knew two ‘geniuses’, and he would have been more than glad to have either of them by his side. Maybe they couldn't save him- there wasn't even really a ‘maybe,’ he knew they couldn't save him- but just to have someone there with him when he… When it happened… It would have been nice. But, then again, one of those geniuses was dead, and the other was all the way in Brooklyn. Neither of them were coming to his rescue.

It didn't really matter, anyway, at least not for much longer. Steve could tell when the cold started to numb the agony in his legs that this was the end. He had pictured death so many times before, and in so many different ways, that it shouldn't have scared him. The prospect of dying shouldn't make his heart beat faster and his palms start to sweat in spite of the cold. Really, it shouldn't. And yet it did. Maybe, just maybe, though, it was because, in all the scenarios in which he'd died, he had never been as alone as he was now. Maybe that was what scared him. Maybe it was right to.

Ignoring the screaming of his legs, and ignoring the screaming in his head, Steve dragged himself across the floor of the plane towards the first elevated surface he could find. Thank God for upper body strength, because if it hadn't been for that he would have died in a heap at the foot of the chair, and that certainly wasn't how he wanted to go. After everything that had happened to him, after everything he'd been through, Steve thought that he at least deserved a little dignity as he died.

Dignity… It was more than Bucky had gotten. It wasn't even a billionth of what he deserved, not even close. Bucky deserved the world, and all the good things in it. He always had, and Steve had always thought he had more time to give it to him. Apparently, they weren't meant to have that time after all. And that just wasn't fair. No, it wasn't fair at all. But Steve had no power over the past. Hell, he hardly had any power over the future anymore. The future was racing towards him at a terrifying speed, and it was all Steve could do to haul himself up off the floor and lay back as his vision started swimming.

Time seemed to simultaneously creep by and rush past for Steve. One moment he would be staring at the ceiling for what felt like a millennia, but the next he would shut his eyes for a brief moment and when he opened them another foot of water would have flooded the plane. He was in no great hurry to come into contact with said water, but a small part of Steve almost wished that it would wash over him and end everything. The waiting, the knowledge that he was going to die any moment, was starting to get to him. Again, he knew it shouldn't, but it did nonetheless.

Steve’s eyes were actually fixed on his shield when it finally fell victim to the water. The thought of whether or not it was going to float briefly flashed through his mind, quickly followed by the answer. No, he observed, the shield didn't float. It stayed exactly where it had fallen, and before long the dark water had completely obscured it from his view. Another thought flashed through Steve’s head, as he turned away and looked back at the ceiling; he wondered if Howard had ever done tests to see the shield’s floating capabilities before it ended up in Steve's hands. The final, flickering light above him died as he decided that he probably had. This was Howard, after all.

Howard. The genius that was still in Brooklyn. He was probably with Peggy, considering she was there, too. Ah, Peggy. Steve hoped she wouldn't grieve for him too badly, even though he knew she probably would. Even still, it was comforting to know that she wouldn't let it affect her work. That much Steve knew for a fact. Peggy would never let anything, or even anyone, take her eye off of what needed to be done. That had been a big part of why he had admired her. It had been a big part of why he loved her.

Steve had only ever really loved three people in his life, and he has lost all of them. A loud, creaking noise sounded to his left. The wings were breaking off, and more water was flooding in in their place. He had loved his mother, but she had died all too soon. A crackle of electricity shot through an exposed wire, loud and bright and angry. He had loved Bucky, but he had let him die right in front of him. A frozen wind blew through the cabin. The parts of his hair not plastered to his forehead with sweat blew along on it. And, finally, he'd loved Peggy. She hadn't died, not like his mother or Bucky. No, that wasn't how he lost her. Steve was losing Peggy because he was dying, not her. The water hit him like a truck, making every muscle in his body tense up. It washed over him too quickly to process, leaving him to gasp one last time as the darkness finally covered him completely. Though, in a way, that was decidedly better. This was decidedly better.


	2. Let's Say Goodbye With a Smile, Dear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He desperately needed to forget, if only for a fleeting moment, how truly out of control he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place 70 years after the first one give or take a few. You know how it is.

_June, 2011_

Steve had thought that he had handled the whole ‘waking up seventy years after he died to a world he knows nothing about’ things pretty well. He had thought that, but he had been very wrong. Of course, who could really blame him? Everything had just been inexplicably wrong, and his training has just kicked in without warning.

Pre-war Steve Rogers might have played it cool until he could figure out why he was being lied to about his location and reason for being there, but post-war Steve Rogers? Post-war Steve Rogers realized that he was being held somewhere and not told the truth about it, and he instantly knew he had to get out. He had seen what happened to prisoners that Hydra managed to get their experimental little hands on, and he refused to become one of those prisoners. He couldn't let that happen. So he did what it took to escape. That escaping just happened to involve crashing through a pseudo wall and out into the modern world, but he hadn't been thinking of the end results when he'd done it. He was just trying to get away.

The plan that was going through Steve's head as he ran was fairly simple: Get away, figure out where he was, and find the closest American military base. After that, he could figure out what the hell had happened. But in that moment, he had nothing else on his mind except escaping.

Adrenaline could be a hell of a drug, though, even to genetically engineered super soldiers, which is why it didn't register with him just what he was seeing until he managed to break his way through the doors and out into the street. By that point, however, no amount of adrenaline or fear could cover for the scene in front of him. Steve Rogers came face to face with modern Times Square, and his plan of getting away and finding a base all but melted before him. He was so confused, so completely confused, that it took a second for his legs to catch up with his brain. It was a second too long, though, because by the time the plan was back in his mind, it was far too late for that. He had let himself get surrounded. And now he was doing to die.

Except he didn't die.

No, what happened next was worse than dying. It was so, so, so much worse than dying, in every way possible. Dying he could have handled. Hell, he'd handled ‘dying’ before, even if it has scared him shitless. He had laid down on a sinking plane, completely alone in the world, and he had waited to die. Steve Rogers could handle dying again. He could even handle it being permanent this time. He could close his eyes and wait for the impact of the bullets. He could do that. What he couldn't do was stand there as a man in black stepped into his view and shattered his world. He couldn't handle that, not even a little.

* * *

They gave him his own room. That was nice at least. It was small, and well lit, and clean, and the bed was neatly made. White cotton sheets, a window with cream shutters. A light on the nightstand, matching cream lampshade, rotary dial phone beside it along with the Bible. Nothing offensive, nothing wrong. The walls were cream too, with trim that matched the bedding, and little black light switch covers. Everything was perfectly fine. Everything was perfectly normal.

Well, Steve imagined that that was the scenario they were trying to sell him, anyway. They being S.H.I.E.L.D, of course. It had all been explained to him earlier, as he sat in a room that was too bright and too loud and too foreign for him to actually absorb anything he had been told. He'd clocked into the conversation briefly when Peggy's name had been mentioned, when he had been told that she helped to found the organization they were trying to explain to him, but the logistical talk came back not long after and Steve clocked out again. He supposed they must have given up on him actually paying attention after a while, because he found himself alone in his room before the hour was over.

The room itself was genuinely fine. He had nothing against cream shutters, or white cotton sheets, or the Bible. In fact, he liked all of those things a good bit. So the items themselves weren't the objectionable part. The objectionable part was that everything in that room was there because someone knew he would like it. The paint, and the sheets, and the phone on the nightstand, all of it had been placed in his room because some soldier- No, some agent. He had been told that they weren't soldiers, they were agents. Less Bucky, more Peggy. At least he could understand that- had gone through his life with a fine toothed comb and found out that he liked it. That just didn't sit well with him.

He got tired of standing just inside the entryway after a while, and ended up sitting on the edge of the bed stiffly instead. Steve knew, objectively, that sitting properly on the bed wasn't going to hurt him. Really, he did. But at this point it was less of a matter of precaution and more of a matter of control. His whole life had just fallen apart around him. Everything he knew or understood was gone. Everyone he loved, everyone he even just liked, was dead. And he'd had no control over that. It was starting to feel like he had no control over anything. So if he could prove that wrong, even if it was just by controlling whether or not he sat properly on his bed, then he was going to grab onto that chance and not let it go. He needed that. He needed that more than he could explain. He desperately needed to forget, if only for a fleeting moment, how truly out of control he was.

* * *

Never had there been a time where he was more happy to be alone. If Steve couldn't have the people he loved, then he wanted no one. The strangers he'd met, with their strange clothes and unfamiliar words and technology that made his head spin, were the last people he wanted to interact with. The silence and stillness of solitude was a blessing. 

Steve had assumed that they wouldn't let him out of their sight for even a minute. Honestly, if they had made that decision, he wouldn't have even blamed them. Steve was a military man, he knew the dangers of an unpredictable risk. As much as he didn't want to admit it, that was exactly what he was for these people. He was a science experiment with training. As objectifying as it was, it was the truth. He was dangerous for them, a loose canon. These people had no way of knowing where his loyalties were, especially after seventy years in the ice.

Seventy years in the ice… That was still hitting him pretty hard. It had been seventy years since he had laid down with the full intention to die. And he hadn't died. That was the worst part. He hadn't died, but he'd still lost everything. How did that work? He didn't know. Well, no. He did know. He just didn't want to. That worked by him freezing in the ocean for seventy years, just dead enough to lose but alive enough to have to deal with the fallout. Something about that seemed unfair. Everything about that seemed unfair, honestly.

"Captain Rogers?" A voice from the doorway roused him. Softly, Steve sighed. So they wouldn't leave him alone for that long.

"Yes?" He turned, and- "Sir?" The man in black was standing in front of him. Why?

"There's something I need you to see."

Steve watched him wearily. "Something I'm not gonna like?"

The man cracked a wry smile. "Probably not. Can't say I'm sorry."

With a sigh, Steve stood. "So, where are we going?"

"You'll see." He turned towards the door. "Come with me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from the 1939 song "We'll Meet Again"


	3. Because to Tell You the Truth, I'll be Lonely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His voice broke on the last word. In an instant, he seemed so much younger. "Steve. Steve. I don't want to see you die."

_ March, 1943 _

The lights were off, the apartment silent, when Steve unlocked the door and stepped inside. The fair had been... Well. It had been both a success and a failure. It was a success because he had finally, finally, gotten in. He'd done it. He was a soldier. It was a failure because he'd run away from another date, like he always did. He'd let the girl down, let himself down, and let Bucky down. This time was no different than the others. 

He slumped onto the couch, leaning his head back. Bucky was probably still out dancing. Or maybe he'd gone home with his girl? Either way, he wouldn't be coming back home. He'd be out all night, and then in the morning... In the morning he'd be gone. And he might never come back. 

Steve was still sitting on the couch, a few hours later, when the door swung open. Wide eyed, he looked up to find a dark figure standing in the door frame. Bucky. "Buck?" Confusion lined his face. "I didn't think you were coming back?" 

"I need to know." He was so obviously drunk, judging by the way he had to hold himself up with the wall, but his tone was sober. "I need to know." 

"You're drunk," Steve said, diverting. He knew exactly what Bucky wanted to know, and he didn't want to answer. "Where's your date?" 

"Steve."

Steve didn't meet his eyes. "Go to sleep. You have an early morning." 

"You did it, didn't you?" he said. Steve didn't even need to see his face to know how disappointed he was. 

"I had to, Buck." He looked up, and found his eyes directly on him. Shadows from the table lamp only served to highlight his disapproval. 

He shook his head, and stumbled forward. "You didn't. You shouldn't have." 

"Men are dying, Bucky." Annoyance had been creeping into his tone through the whole conversation, and it was turning to something stronger.

"You think I don't know?" He yanked his hat off his head, brandishing it angrily. "I know! God dammit, Steve!" 

Succumbing to the tension, Steve stood. He could shout, too. "Then you know why! This is my life, Bucky!" 

"And you're throwing it the fuck away!" His voice broke on the last word. In an instant, he seemed so much younger. "Steve. Steve. I don't want to see you die." 

Steve sighed, shoulders slumping; the fight went out of him at the broken sound of Bucky's voice. "I'm just doing what I can," he mumbled. 

Bucky sighed, and put his hat back on. It was crooked, but Steve said nothing. "I'm going back out." 

"You're drunk." 

"Not drunk enough." 

"Bucky..." 

"I don't want to remember this conversation," he said. "I can't. I won't be worth a damn out there if I'm constantly worried about whether you're dead in a trench somewhere. So just-" He gestured aimlessly, gave up, and repeated, "I don't want to remember this conversation." 

They simply looked at each other for a long moment. It was Steve who eventually broke the silence. "Okay," was all he said. 

"Okay," Bucky mirrored, and turned to leave. He paused in the doorway, back to the room, and muttered, "Be careful, Stevie." 

Steve never replied. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from Dianah Shore's 1944 "I'll Walk Alone"

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the 1942 song "I've Heard That Song Before"


End file.
